


One o'Clock Jump

by rixie_rhee



Series: In the Mood [7]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 16:31:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14856254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rixie_rhee/pseuds/rixie_rhee
Summary: “Hello?”“Hi.” The slur is apparent even in the one-syllable, two-letter word.“Hey Lew, hey sweetheart.” Rissy tries as hard as she can to keep her voice steady and normal, but she starts to cry as soon as she hears him. She tries to at least cry quietly, but she can’t do that either.“He told you, didn’t he?”





	One o'Clock Jump

“Rissa, the ‘phone is for you.”

Nurse Mitchell looks up from her notes and smooths her white skirt down her legs. One ugly white shoe is half off her foot, which is clad in cotton stockings as pristine as the rest of her clothes. She’s clean, no stains--besides the ink on her fingers--lipstick just so, cap pinned neatly in place, even her shoes are free of scuffs. She’s warm, too, as this is a building used for its intended purpose. There are no broken windows and the walls are intact, even the doors shut tightly. Nothing here is makeshift, essential supplies are readily available enough. It’s spring by dates even if it doesn’t feel like it yet, but at least winter is over.

Rissy is miserable. She’s still reeling from the doctor’s news even though it’s been nine days since he told her that she was expecting. One should appreciate the relative safety and cleanliness in Paris, but Rissy would trade it in a heartbeat to be back where she had been. Part of it was that she felt more useful there, part of it was also Lew. She tells herself that it’s more of the former, but she is afraid that her reasons are more selfish than selfless.

“Who is it?”

“It’s a man. Not a doctor. He didn’t give his name.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“I’ve left the ‘phone off the hook for you.”

“Thank you.” Rissy closes the chart without finishing her notes, but at least the ink has had time to dry so they won’t smear. The black telephone receiver sits ominously on the desk, waiting. Rissy can feel her heart beating in her fingertips when she grasps it. The handset is cold and unyielding. “Hello?”

“Rissa? It’s Dick.”

“Oh-oh.” She can’t even think to form words. It’s his tone, she can hear the heaviness beneath the calm. She’s used that voice enough herself to recognize it in others. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine, and Nix is fine--”

“What happened?” Her belly drops, and she covers it with her free hand. Still flat, almost concave, really. She needs to eat more.

“Nix jumped today, Rissa. He’s fine, he got out, him and a few others--”

Rissy squeaks and her hand flies to her mouth. The thought flying through her head is that Lew doesn’t even know, he could have died today, and he doesn’t even know, he never would have known.

Dick sighs again. “They lost their CO so Nix has to write the letters. He’s not handing it very well.” This is shorthand. Lew ‘not handling it very well’ is Lew fighting his way to the bottom of a bottle. Or several of them.

There’s nothing but crackling on the line. Rissy’s heart aches for Nix and her arms ache to hold him. Every time she sees him now, the hug and kiss hello aren’t just loving affection; she’s also checking that he’s not hiding some injury. And he does the same thing to her, searching her face and her eyes when he tilts her chin up, before he brings his lips to hers. This has just become the way things are. Nothing is just what it is anymore.

“Shit.” What an ugly little word, and yet what a tame one. That word never would have left her mouth in Illinois, not even in Chicago. She was a lady. Everyone has changed, everyone has aged—so many young men and women who play madly when they can because they bear too much when they can’t.

“Yeah, I’m just letting you know.”

 “Thank you.” This is shorthand, too. Not only thank you for the call, but also thank you for so much more than that.

“Of course. I thought you should know.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, Dick’s voice is full of cautious concern. “Are you alright?”

“Me? I’m fine.” If you add enough caveats, you can make anything true. “Are you?” He wouldn’t say if he isn’t, the same way Rissy didn’t, but she wants to let him know she’s concerned all the same. Sometimes that makes enough of a difference to matter.

“I’m okay but I have to go. Take care, Rissa.”

“Good-bye, Dick. You, too. Thank you.”

“I will and you’re welcome. Good-bye.”

The receiver clicks back onto the base, fitting in its black plastic cradle. Rissa fills her lungs and slowly lets the air back out. She stands there, hands at her temples, eyes welling. She wants to scream. There are less than three hours left in her shift, less than three hours to wade through. Even though he’s fine--he’s fine--he’s really not, and Rissy knows it.

No one is fine. People aren’t meant to live like this, and so everyone finds a way to make life tolerable, even if only marginally so. Rissa knows this, and lord knows she had a crutch of her own. Truth be told, she still does. Only now, it’s just with Lewis, and that somehow makes it different and more acceptable. Everyone has his own variation. Sometimes it’s innocuous. Unfortunately, Lew’s coping mechanism is not, and he seems to be leaning on it more and more.

For three hours, Rissa smiles, cajoles, persuades, encourages, but her mind is elsewhere the whole time, and each bandaged, burned, or injured man has coffee-colored eyes.

* * *

 

The communal telephone is out in the hall. The girls in the rooms nearest its little alcove are responsible for answering it and finding whoever the caller asks for. This is one of the unspoken rules that they live by. There is a knock on Rissa’s door. She’s been waiting for it, smoking and staring out the window without seeing anything in front of her eyes. Instead she sees flaming debris falling from the sky, the burn mark that used to ride above Lew’s eyebrow, a flag folded into a triangle and presented to Kathy Nixon and her son.

“Come in,” she yells distractedly. The door creaks as it reluctantly opens partway.

A face peeks around the door. “’You have a call, Rissa.”

“I’ll be right out, thank you.” The door closes again. Rissy hadn’t even looked away from the window. It might be spring in Paris, even if only by a few days, but it is rainy and the chill penetrates everything. A wave of nausea rolls through her belly when she stands up.

Rissy pads out into the hallway in thick socks. She’s wearing pants and Lew’s general issue sweater, one that he left behind. It’s warm, slightly scratchy, and oatmeal-colored, and it’s the closest she can get to actually touching him. Rissy crosses her legs when she sits on the straight-backed chair next to the telephone table. It’s an uncomfortable, institutional thing, to discourage long calls. She picks up the phone and cradles it between her face and shoulder, twisting the cord in her fingers. The line crackles with static.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” The slur is apparent even in the one-syllable, two-letter word.

“Hey Lew, hey sweetheart.” Rissy tries as hard as she can to keep her voice steady and normal, but she starts to cry as soon as she hears him. She tries to at least cry quietly, but she can’t do that either.

“He told you, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he did.” She nods even though Nix can’t see her. There’s no need to specify who ‘he’ is. “He’s worried about you, Lew. So am I.” Rissy tries unsuccessfully to swallow the lump in her throat.

“I know.” Lew sniffles into the phone, and then he clears his throat. “It’s so good to hear your voice, Rissy.” Nix’s own voice is pitched low, hitching just a bit. Rissy can see him, there must be a hectic flush on his face, his eyes would be red-rimmed. She wonders if he’s been crying. “I thought that was it.”

Rissy doesn’t know how to respond to that, she only makes a small, strangled sound. She can’t think of a single thing to say and Nix doesn’t say anything else. Since she can’t think of anything else to do, she starts to sing in a tiny, wavering voice that’s thick with tears. It’s either the stress or her hormones, probably both, that have her nerves strung so tightly. She sings ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ and ‘At Last’ and then ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ Nix is quiet, listening to her with his eyes closed on the other end of the line. When she’s done, there are a few more seconds of near-silence, filled only with breathing.

 “I hate the fucking _waste_ of all this. They were goddamn _kids_ , Rissy.” She’s surprised at the venom she hears in his voice. There’s a pause, and Rissy imagines she can hear him swallow, and then she does hear the muted thud of glass on wood. “I wanna go home. I just wanna go home.” Ice clinks in glass. “No, I want you. Just you.”

“You have me,” she whispers. You have me, and whoever’s coming along, she thinks. Rissy bites her lip so hard she draws blood and the taste of pennies floods her tongue. There is no doubt in her mind that Lew loves her, but she doesn’t know how he’ll react to the news that there’s an impending little stranger. He almost died, she almost lost him, it so easily could have gone in another direction, and he doesn’t even know that there’s a piece of him growing in her belly. “You have me, Lew. Of course you do.”

He starts to talk and what spills out is full of rancor, but how could it not be? He’s right, it is a waste. All these young men, who will never be husbands or fathers, who will never get to accomplish whatever they would have done if they hadn’t been snuffed out. Not to mention, all the men--and women--who will go home, wherever that may be, who will carry their scars with them for the rest of their lives. Oh, it’s easy to get swept up, to be red-white-and-blue about it, until it’s your own man, or until you see enough senseless destruction, orphaned children, or hungry babies. Maybe it’s selfish to worry about what will happen to her own self. At the worst, she’ll go home to Hazel and have a baby, and more than that, Lew’s baby. She’s so preoccupied it’s hard to pay attention, even though she usually hangs on every word he says.

“…I have to write all these goddamn letters. I was the first one out…” Jesus, such a little thing. What if he’d been standing ten feet farther back? Her baby would be fatherless. Panic rises in her chest--ridiculous now that he’s fine with two feet on the ground--and she starts to cry again. It’s louder this time, and she feels awful and ashamed when Nix tells her it’s okay and he’s okay, when he makes the kind of soft sounds you’d use to comfort a sobbing child. She’s the one who should be doing this for him, not the other way around. Her tears taper off and Nix continues.

Rissy shakes her head, trying to listen and worry at the same time. She shifts to sit on one hip, to cradle the ‘phone between her shoulder and her ear. Far away, across the staticky telephone line, Nix settles back in his chair, red lips almost pressed to the ‘phone in his hand. He sounds so bitter. Who would want to bring a baby into this? Nix is angry, and who could blame him--it’s easier to be angry than to be scared. It’s understandable, but it still scares Rissy. She doesn’t want to add any more pressure, not when it seems like one more burden will break him, or at the very least send him running for far more whiskey than could be good for anyone.

Nix talks himself out, and eventually, the rough edges smooth out, but the slurring remains. He changes tracks abruptly “What d’you have on?”

“Lewis!”

“I jus’ wanna know what you look like.”

“Okay, fine. It’s not very exciting. I have on pants, Lew, and socks that look like they belong to an old man. Your sweater.” She smiles into the ‘phone, the first genuine smile on her face since three pm. “And ratty old white underwear I’d never wear in front of you. They have a hole in them.”

“I fucking love you.” Then he continues. “I’m wearing green. And brown.” A shaky breath. “And I miss you.”

“I miss you. I love you, Lew.”

“I gotta go. Gotta finish all these damn letters, Rissy.”

“Lew, go to sleep. Rest. The letters’ll keep one night.” Sadly, she knows this is true. Writing tonight won’t bring any of those boys back, and she is worried about her own soldier. Again, maybe this is selfish, but maybe she’s entitled to that.

“I should write ‘em.”

“You will, just not tonight. Go to sleep, sweetheart, don’t drink anymore.” She wonders if he’ll bristle at that, but he doesn’t.

“You think that’ll be okay?”

“I do. Where are you?”

“There’s a ‘phone by my chair. I gotta blanket. Dick’s here.”

“That’s good, you’re not alone.”

“Wish it was you.”

“Me, too.” Rissy can picture him, how his eyelids slip shut, how his lashes are dark crescents on his cheeks. She starts to sing softly again, this time ‘Good night, wherever you are.’ When the song is done, there are tears on Rissy’s face and Nix’s breathing is deep and regular. She blows a kiss into the receiver before setting it back in its cradle.

Her leg has fallen asleep. She needs to go to the bathroom. There are so many telephone calls and arrangements to make, consequences to face. It can’t be put off any longer. Most importantly, she needs to get to Nix, to tell him, and let the chips fall where they may.

Yes, so much to do, but Rissy is tired. So she uses her bathroom, studies her belly in the mirror, and then she goes to her bed, where she curls up on her side. She splays her hands on the barely perceptible curve and begins to sing again, quietly, softly, until she falls asleep herself.


End file.
